


Blood-Red

by abhorthealien, Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Slice of Life, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abhorthealien/pseuds/abhorthealien, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Straff is an apostate, a baron, and a winemaker. His friend Andros Trevelyan is a General who will become Inquisitor. Catalina Valisti, one of the most feared Crows Antiva has produced.What better company for dinner and fine wines?
Kudos: 4





	Blood-Red

**Author's Note:**

> This was a delightful little character study that I'm delighted to get to share of Abho's Andros and Straff, and my Catalina. Not all duels are fought on grassy lawns, and not all end with blood drawn.
> 
> Thank you so much Abho for the fun and collab!

There was someone walking in his vineyard. Not some _one,_ some _woman._ That was unmistakable. Her hips swayed in time with her booted feet as she walked precisely down the rows of vines. Pausing, she brushed her gloved fingers against a bunch of nearly black grapes.

Now, this didn’t seem much like cause for alarm. This part of Orlais was little other than vine country, littered with vineyard after vineyard separated by tilled fields or sparse woodland, and Straff stood in the middle of a vineyard, not a fortress. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone standing guard at the gate, which meant one of three things. One, they had let her, whoever she was, pass- without bothering to inform him. Two, she had snuck over the low wall that surrounded the estate, which wasn’t of use for much beyond delineating the borders of the vineyard anyway. 

Or three and most likely, the idiot at the gate watch had fallen asleep. Straff noted it down a piece of his mind to go see whether that was true- but first, see to the visitor. A guest was a guest, after all, even if uninvited, and his father had taught Straff to always greet his guests. The old bastard hadn’t been of much use, but that, that lesson Straff had listened to.

Straff set down his glass, half-full with the previous year’s vintage- good wine, but it’d have to age a while longer, and stood up. He breathed in deeply: nothing like the clear air of the countryside to open one’s lungs. One of the many reasons he liked this place. And then, he walked down among the vines themselves towards the uninvited guest. She was dressed in a pale ivory coat heavily embroidered with dark and gold thread - an elegant bit of Antivan fashion for duellists and the like.

“Good evening.” He called out, several long steps away from the woman, her back turned towards him. “May I help?”

She’d paused briefly when he got within five paces, then returned to her study of the grapes. “These need another week. Two, if the rains don’t let up.” The mystery woman still hadn’t looked up as she weighed _his_ grapes before letting them down gently. Her accent confirmed his suspicions. Antivan, without a doubt. A statuesque Antivan woman was in his vineyard. An armed one - he hadn’t missed the smallsword peeking out from the coat.

Straff reached for the grapes, tore one off its bunch, and popped in its mouth- tart and juicy, as it was supposed to, though his mystery Antivan did have a point. _Couple more weeks to go._ He supposed it made sense she’d know about wine- Andros would’ve japed that the entire nation of Antiva ran on wine. As opposed to the entire nation of Orlais, which ran on wine and cheese. Never forget the cheese. “It seems that way, yes,” Straff nodded, swallowing the grape. “Within two weeks they’ll be heading for the casks- and then we’ll have to wait just a tiny bit of some two years before enjoying them at their best.”

She shook her head, but looked toward him. “In Antiva, it would be at least three, more likely four. Some things are not meant to be rushed. Perhaps your grapes are different?” Odd green-gold eyes examined him minutely, framed by high cheekbones and skin the color of oiled bronze. “No disrespect...master vintner?”

“You could call me that, I suppose- though this is more a dearly held hobby than a profession. It’s a wide world with many a vine and many a grape. Thank the Maker for that, for otherwise we would have been enjoying a particularly dull selection of wines.” Straff returned the woman’s gaze: if she wanted to examine him, he could play at that game. 

She was steady, balanced - handsome enough to draw second looks even without cosmetics. The hilt of her smallsword was well-wrapped, but without the frippery of a dress weapon. She had an aura of complete confidence seasoned with just a hint of amusement. Plus, she knew more about wine than how to drink it. The woman was more and more interesting.

“Though there are indeed some grapes the world probably would do better without, like that rubbish they grow up in Anderfels.” He paused for a moment, then suddenly realized he’d forgotten to say something. “And of course, no offense taken, Lady…” Straff trailed off, expecting her to fill the gap.

The mystery woman smiled slightly. “Master assassin Catalina Valisti. And you are?”

Straff almost took a step back. It wasn’t the title that was worrying- anyone could’ve claimed to be a master assassin, though one would be wise to not attempt such deception in Antiva proper. It wasn’t the name itself- the name Catalina didn’t tell him any. But the last name? That was ominous. The dead House of Valisti. There was a certain malevolence to the three syllables, half from its existence as a house of the Antivan Crows, half from its sudden and harsh annihilation at the hands of the united Merchant Princes - which would also mean, the other Crows also supported it’s fall. He might not have been an expert on Antiva, but he’d heard that much.

One didn’t take _that_ name falsely- not when it in all likelihood came with so many enemies. That made it much more likely she was exactly what she said she was. _Tread carefully, Straff. There is more afoot._

“Honored- though of course if you aren’t here for my head. If you are, I think this’d be a meeting marginally less pleasant on my behalf. Straff Antoril, Baron of Alesin, at your service.”

Catalina dipped into a mild courtesy, her eyes holding his. “My pleasure, Baron Antoril.” Her husky voice could give that any number of meanings, and it made none of them clear. “My apologies for interrupting your evening.”

When you were a noble of some power and Straff’s age, you got good at reading people. You learned how to extricate the little thoughts behind unsaid words, the meaning behind the smallest twitches. You learned, or you paid the price. And Straff had gotten good at reading people. But every once in a while, you ran into a face and a voice like that of this Antivan, one that gave no more hints, chinks or involuntary giveaways than the perimeter wall of this vineyard. Was it courtesy or an invitation or a threat? If it was the latter, it was a veiled one indeed.

Well, that only meant he had to try harder. Nobody could be entirely without a chink in the mask. Plus, she hadn’t drawn her sword, or the daggers Crows were usually fond of. That was a good sign.

“There’s little need for apologies- though the courtesy is still appreciated.” Straff waved off the apology. “Though one can’t help, and pardon my bluntness, wonder at the reason behind your arrival on such a lovely afternoon. Unless it was to talk about grapes and wine- in which case, I would have gladly extended my invitation.”

 _Or it’s become custom in the Crows to announce oneself’s identity before killing your target. Perhaps you all have started believing a man deserves to die knowing the cause of his death, knowing he’s failed, knowing his path to the Golden City lies open._ He had to suppress a snort- the notion seemed quite far-fetched.

“Nothing but a stroll through something almost of Antiva, I assure you,” she said with a throaty chuckle. “There was no one at the gate to say visitors were unwelcome.”

 _Wonderful._ “It appears I must hire better guards- ones who are not prone to abandon their positions in the middle of their shift. Nevertheless, I hold to the belief that a well-intending visitor can be uninvited- though rarely unwelcome.” He didn’t speak out loud the clear question: _And do you intend well, Lady Valisti?_ “If I had thought a guest unwelcome, I’d have sent guards rather than inquire myself- which, in hindsight, would have probably been an unpleasant experience for all concerned.” _Though probably more for the poor guard I sent than it’d be for her._

“If approached politely, then I would have left just as politely, my lord. To do less would lack honor or common courtesy. It is not my land, but yours.”

It seemed _almost_ likely that she was here just for the grapes. Straff would have liked that to be the case- he could have certainly taken it as a compliment to his winemaking abilities. _Hear ye, hear ye! Baron Antoril, whose grapes are so magnificent it has bewitched even Antivan assassins!_ It seemed so ridiculous that it should have been true.

“In that case, I could have hardly accused you of ill intent.” That wasn’t necessarily true- Straff had seen much ill intent concealed behind good manners- but it was the polite thing to say, and damn it if it would’ve been him to answer to good manners with brash accusations. Even to assassins- not that he could claim his hands were clean. After all, he had to represent Orlais. “If I might ask, then, from one interested in the subtle art of wine-making to another, your impression of my meagre work?”

The smile he got back was definitely genuine - even if he still couldn’t tell if it was also an invitation. She turned to look at the tidy rows of vines draped over their fencing, and slowly removed her gloves. The signet ring on her right middle finger caught his eye, set with a ruby, but she merely tucked her gloves into her sword belt before touching the leaves of the nearest vine for health. She raised an eyebrow at him for permission, then plucked a single grape to smell and then take a bite. She licked her upper lip where the juice had burst, considering.

Nothing she did was intended as an invitation - probably. 

“Almost, my lord, it measures up to that of Prince Treviso’s. Certainly finer than that of Duc Grands Chapeaux, if you let it age.” He knew both names - what aficionado did not? It was not the finest of wines in either country, but certainly high praise. It was also, not incidentally, roughly where he would have placed himself. 

Her eyes moved past him. Nothing changed about her posture, but there was a sense of something alert. What had changed? He tensed himself.

“You seem to have another guest?”

The sound of clattering hooves reached Straff’s ears not long after the woman’s voice. Straff half-turned to look down the road: he was acutely aware that this put the woman, and her sword, out of view, but at this point Straff doubted she was here with murder on her mind. Well, his murder, at least- it seemed unlikely that she’d be aware that he was a mage, and thus if she wanted to kill him in broad daylight he probably looked defenseless enough for her to not bother waiting to see his back.

Oh, and there wasn’t a reason for her to tell him flat out that she was an assassin. There was that, too.

A pair of horses rode up the road- one familiar, one distinctly not. Two riders- one familiar, one distinctly not. They rode in the vineyard over the road that ran through it, and thankfully there wasn’t much dust for the hooves to kick up. The benefits of keeping the road clean along with the rain they’d been getting.

“Well, Straff, you won’t believe who I ran into in the town.” Andros dismounted, and plucked a few grapes from the nearest vine with a sacrilegious disregard for the fine art of winemaking, especially for someone with such fondness for the end product. “I hope you have a spare chair.”

Straff looked up to his friend’s impromptu companion, now also dismounted: a tall woman, broad of shoulder, hair cropped almost to nothing and the faintest creases of age around her eyes, dressed for the road with a tunic and breeches. She seemed familiar, somehow- _Maker._ “You’re kidding. Erin?”

“The one and only.” The Templar grinned. 

Straff reached out his arm- and Erin caught him in the elbow. “How long has it been? Five years? Six?”

“About that.” Erin nodded. “How’s your wife?”

“Well enough- though she’d like your visit sometime, Say-” Straff had much to say- but then he was so very rudely interrupted by a hand tapping on his shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt your reunion,” Andros said, his eyes curious, “but it appears you have another guest and I think we’d both like an introduction.”

Straff paused, words refusing to come out of his mouth. He took one look at Andros, standing there expectantly, and one look at Catalina, wearing her first enigmatic, catlike half-smile.

 _Oh, I was about to come to it, Andros. Meet Catalina- my dear assassin best friend. Yes, assassin- she murders people like us for payment. We go way back._ He’d almost laugh if he wasn’t in the middle of the whole situation.

Said Catalina stepped smoothly up to his left side - prowled, almost, though it seemed as natural as anything else he’d seen - to stop a respectful distance away. “That, my lord, is your choice. As you mentioned, I was not an expected guest. I can be on my way if you have more important things to attend to.”

Her accent was no less visible, but it certainly didn’t limit any ability to understand her. It just added to the sense of the exotic.

What the woman offered was a graceful way out- it was not difficult to see that. A polite, well mannered way of sending her away and having his dinner in peace, reminiscing with old friends. He probably should have taken that offer. It’d have been the smart choice- the sane choice.

But by the Maker- he did not intend to miss this happening.

“Of course, if my lady would rather be on her way, it would have been impolite in the extreme- that being said, unexpected or not, I cannot in good conscience turn away a guest who arrived bearing no ill intent.” He gave a momentary glance towards Andros, and his lips almost curled up in amusement. “I’m fairly certain two unexpected visitors as opposed to just one will not prove too much of a challenge- should my lady wish to join us this evening.”

“It would be a pleasure,” she responded. 

_Of course it would be._

**

The woman was a warrior, certainly - longsword and shield, if Catalina were to guess by her shoulders. The second man seemed to be a noble of some stripe, based on the quality of his horse, and related to the woman unless she missed her guess. Close friends with the sometimes-warrior who owned the land, certainly. Anyone who loved winemaking wouldn’t tolerate the other’s disregard if he was anything but patron, brother, or lover. The Baron was an interesting one. Muscle under the marks of fine living, and a sense of something _else_ that left her curious. His...friend...was taller, rangy, and far more intense a person.

Her thumb caressed the pommel of her sword absently while she waited to see just who these family members were. She didn’t know the more minor Orlesian nobility as well as one raised in the House of Repose would have, no matter she’d just completed a contract on one, two vineyards over.

“In that case, I hope I would not be too forward in electing to introduce myself- for if we were to rely on my good friend here, we might be learning each other’s names over dessert.” The man grinned lightly at his own jape, but there was a suspicious twinkle at his eyes- one almost playful, in the way the Orlesians play their ridiculous ‘Game.’

The man the Baron had called Andros continued, with a measured bow at the neck for a greeting. “Andros Berchtold Trevelyan, heir to Lord Lothar Trevelyan of Ostwick, Baron of Ostenstadt, First Marshal of Ostwick- for now, that is. Hammer of Wycome to many, and to some, Demon of the Argent Ford.” The briefest of smiles followed it- almost knowing.

It may not have been in Antivan, but the familiarity of the introduction was still a balm to sensibilities Orlesians tended to rub raw. The least she could do was match courtesy to courtesy. She doubted one known as ‘Demon or Argent Ford’ would run or draw on her, especially when he offered a proper, _Antivan_ introduction.

“My pleasure, Baron Trevelyan. I am Catalia Valisti, Stella Malvagia of the Crows, Master Assassin and currently a guest of the House of Repose.” In Antiva, a Master was of equal respect to a minor noble, much less the son of one; she returned his nod respectfully. “A pleasure to meet you.”

That seemed to elicit a reaction. For the briefest of moments, barely a heart’s beat, there was a shift in the Marcher’s mask- half surprised, half curious, before the controlled expression of politeness reasserted itself. She could see the same reaction, mixed with what surely was a sliver of sword-itch, on the woman’s face: there it lingered far longer, its owner either not bothering or not able to hide it. She spoke after a long break. “Erin Trevelyan. Knight-Lieutenant, and not a whole lot else.” It was hard to tell whether that last part was a jape or a serious bitterness.

The Trevelyans must be pious indeed. That was something she could deeply respect. Hand over her heart, Catalina gave the Knight-Lieutenant a true bow. “Ser Templar. Maker guide you in your duty.”

“Maker guide us all.” Erin replied, a faint smile forming on dry, thin lips- she appeared to appreciate the sentiment. “This world sure needs it- it’s going mad step by step, and we’re not a long way off the cliff.” Now that she had taken a serious look, Catalina could notice an unusually pale complexion and tired eyes on the woman- for this reason or the other, she didn’t seem too familiar with a good night’s sleep.

“We aren’t.” Baron Straff replied. “I can tell you this for nothing- within a few years, things will be nowhere this calm.”

“Calm? Until a mere two years ago I was fighting a war, Straff- and it wasn’t particularly calm, I can tell you that.” Andros said, smiling as if to show he didn’t mean anything by it. Then, Catalina saw the man turn towards her. “Well, I’m sure this conversation is best made at the dinner table rather than in the middle of the road, so, I say we best proceed. If my lady would?” The words were accompanied by an arm, extended out in that traditional manner of high society anywhere.

“You honor me,” she riposted mildly, taking it. It would certainly be an _interesting_ dinner, even if her blood had cooled from the contract. This ‘Straff’ was certainly wary around her, as was the Knight-Lieutenant. The man escorting her was...if wary, something else far more. _Intrigued,_ perhaps. Given what she knew of Andros Trevelyan’s history, it was not unreturned. She wasn’t sure whether she’d enjoy the company or the wines more.

**

The dinner was good - Straff managed to avoid the worst of Orlesian pretention at the table, and paired it with a strong, dry red- something from this very vineyard, unless she missed her guess. It wouldn’t suit the ridiculous meals she’d seen at other Orlesian events.

Rather than a formal setup, this was served in a restaurant or family style, with all four seated around a table meant for conversation - or cards. She wound up across from the Templar, balancing things nicely.

“This is your own making, I assume?” She’d let him taste and approve first, then did the same. Even holding it to the light, only the faintest garnet showed through. She smiled. “A wine for sturdier palettes than I’m accustomed to in Orlais.”

The baron beamed- it seemed the man truly held passion for his wines. “It is- though I dare say I prefer it that way, even though it is not surprising to see it not quite fitting the preferred taste in Orlais. This bottle indeed comes from my own making, the harvest of 36. I presume it is to your liking?”

“Quite,” she agreed. “It’s more suited to lamb than fish, an excellent pairing with the roast.”

She’d hung up her sword on the rack - it wouldn’t do to be armed at the table - and saw the others relax. Well, let them. She was here for nothing but serendipity. Her coat, like the Baron’s, was left off as well. Andros, she noted with some relief, showed proper care for the wine despite neglecting the grapes earlier.

Speaking of Andros, it was he who replied to her. “Indeed, though I find that is the case for most red wines. Fish… It’s a rare red that goes better with fish than it does with lamb- or beef, for that matter.”

“There are some that do - but they require a very dry soil and northern slopes, as well as more constant sun as they grow. You may not know the wines of Maestro Luca, near Rialto? She has perfected ones almost as dark as this, but perfect with mussels.”

“I believe I’m familiar with the name- though not much else.” The baron refilled his chalice. “Antiva can take pride in a fairly respectable collection of fine wines. In fact, I had once intended to try and grow a segment of Antivan blood-red here. But turns out they don’t much like the soil, and the climate even less.”

“It is too cool, yes. The House of Repose has an estate in the north that can manage some of the sweeter reds and one of its own making, almost black, but it is a small harvest.”

“The House of Repose involves itself in winemaking?” Andros shook his head. “So delightfully Orlesian.”

She raised an eyebrow at him as she finished her glass and took another bite of dinner. “Not at all! Every House has its vineyards, named for the Founders and those of the House who have proven...worth remembering in such a way. The Founders of the Crows came from a monastery renowned for its vineyards, though I suppose that is not well known outside Antiva.”

“How delightfully Antivan, in that case.” The Templar joined the conversation, setting down her glass, a pair of dark eyes fixated on Catalina. “I hate to interrupt this conversation of winery, but may I ask a question of importance?”

“To an Antivan, wine-making _is_ a topic of importance, but certainly, Ser Trevelyan.” She breathed in the Fade - the wine was too good to ignore, but she knew to not be muddled. “What can I answer?”

The Templar leaned forward, eyes glancing between the three others at the table. “I trust what I’m about to say will not leave this table.”

Catalina nodded. “So long as it does not impinge my honor or that of the House that hosts me, of course.”

“It will do neither. The last six months I spent traveling through the Free Marches and Orlais- with a couple stops in Ferelden, on order of Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch. Keeping my eyes and ears open- and everywhere I found little other than _maleficar_ plotting and my fellow Templars snapping at every shadow.” The woman paused. “You hail from Antiva, and possess connections. How bad is the situation there?”

Catalina lounged back in her chair, picking up the refilled wineglass and studying its light. ‘Connections.’ Yes, she did have connections of a sort - though not the ones the Templar likely meant. Few of even her fellow Crows were comfortable around her. On the other hand, Repose paid attention, and there was the warning she knew had already been passed to the Crows, and from them to the Princes. She could answer the question, and gladly. The Chantry had enough to concern itself with, it did not need to look for other problems.

“There is...much that is internal to Antiva - and more, to the Crows. But no. Antiva has a different arrangement with the Circles - you know this? There is not just the Wardens to take those not suited to the life, but the Crows. What happened in Kirkwall - Antiva knows, the Princes know, the Crows know, and we are united in keeping Antiva whole. That will not be tolerated. Not within the Circles, not outside them. The Houses who remain understand this.”

The Templar seemed to smile for a moment, but there was no joy in it- only grim inevitability. “In that case, I will have to hope you are right. This world’s changed in three years. Next time, it won’t be a lone apostate destroying a chantry. It won’t even be someone like Senior Enchanter Jeannot. I fear this affair is moving beyond individuals.”

She shook her head in return. “Of course it is beyond individuals, yet individuals act for their organizations. We will not tolerate such things, and we have something the rest of the South, forgive me, does not. The Princes have banded together with the Talons to set an open contract - and this is known. We will not tolerate more breaking of oaths.” With a breath, she let her claws slip back into their sheathes and returned to a more relaxed posture. “Forgive me, it is something I feel strongly about.”

“I’m sure Antiva is grateful.” Andros stated- the words themselves seemed as if it might have been bitter sarcasm, but the tone wasn’t. Grateful… that she felt so strongly about the matter, that the Princes had banded together, or both? “I’d say my homeland could use a great deal of banding together.” Now _that,_ that seemed bitter- it seemed he wasn’t much sharing the Marchers’ famed passion for their so-called independence.

“Antiva survived the Qunari occupation,” she said with a slight shrug. “We are different - The Marches do not have the Crows. In many other ways, there are similarities. Antiva is united only in honor, faith, and the Crows. It is enough for us.”

“The Qunari came to the Marches, too, and half of its cities shut their gates while Kirkwall screamed for aid, and it fell to Orlais to ‘liberate’ it. A fellow Marcher murdered the Red Sorrow, not Qunari steel. A united Free Marches is mightier than most else, but to our detriment, the only thing the Free Marches are united in is a dislike for each other.” Andros emptied his glass. “In hindsight, it’s probably best if the Crows aren’t native to the Marches, rather than Antiva- the Marcher Crows would’ve been the best assassins in the world, and would be sharpening their skill on each other.”

She shook her head. “No, it is a rarity indeed for there to be a contract against a fellow Crow. We have other ways to handle that.” She shook her head, draining her glass against the bitter memories. “Do you only make reds, my lord?”

It was a sharp change of topic, but this freewheeling family was unlikely to take offense. Dining with a baron, a general and a Templar was rarely this kind of experience.

**

The sound of two pairs of shoes down the paved road thudded in the evening’s gloom, and Andros walked pondering what had just happened.

This had been a most interesting day- he hadn’t planned to run into Erin, and certainly hadn’t planned to return to the vineyard only to find Straff chatting with an Antivan Crow. Hadn’t planned to dine with said Crow, either, spending a good few hours trying, without much success, to crack through the cloak of calm manners she swadded herself in. No, it was Erin who had managed to do _that._ For once, the sledgehammer had proved more useful than the scalpel. That was good to know- he’d have to keep that particular hammer up his sleeve.

He quickly recited the sum total of what he knew about the woman. He knew what she was called- both a name, and a rather more infamous epithet. He knew how she looked, quite striking, if he were to be honest. He knew that she could talk wine with Straff for what felt like a week, that she held devoutly to the Chantry and that fanatical code her kind followed, that she certainly knew how to use that sword, and that Straff would probably be burying a neighbor tomorrow.

All in all, that was _not_ a lot- and every instinct had called on to Andros to let the woman vanish to wherever she had come from, with whatever plans she had brought.

“Did you walk with me because you feared for my safety,” her husky voice hid a smile as she prowled silently next to him, “because you feared for another’s, or to ensure I left?”

That was the thing about him, Andros supposed. He didn’t listen to his instincts enough.

“Tradition would’ve dictated I do the first, but I greatly doubt you would have needed my protection. Honor would’ve dictated the second, but the only people I care about within fifty miles are back in a vineyard. Caution would’ve dictated the third- yet somehow I doubt if you wished to remain, walking you to the nearest town would’ve done little good towards ensuring that you are gone.” The answer to what she had asked out loud was simple- none of the above. But the implicit question was harder to answer: _Why, then?_

She chuckled at that. “Curiosity, then. What is it you’re so curious about?”

Curiosity? That seemed to be an answer- perhaps not a full one, but an answer still. “You came here, to this part of the country, I presume on a contract- and ended up spending an evening with a trio of complete strangers, discussing wine, theatre, politics, and even a bit of history. And I’ve had work with assassins before. From as low as beggars given a knife, to a Master of the Antivan Crows and their retinue- that one more than once.” He frowned there. The memory of hiring the Crows had not been a pleasant one- the service had been excellent, yes, but using it to ruin the woman one loved left a sour taste in the mouth. “All in all, I’m rather well acquainted with the profession- and you, my lady, do not fit my expectations.”

She nodded. “House Lanos, that you worked with, or D’Evaliste? They and Valisti were the most likely to take contracts outside Antiva. Well, and Repose, but Repose does not meet with a retinue. Do all Marcher nobles act the same? Each House has its own manners.” 

The question didn’t seem to be anything but idle curiosity, open to an answer or not. She didn’t wait for one.

“To the rest? Crows are recognized in Antiva as what we are. As a master, I am accorded the same respect as any minor noble. We have coin - we travel and not just on business. For the rest - I am the Stella Malvagia. The Dark Jewel, in Trade.” Her voice remained conversational, with that husky sensuality that seemed unconscious. “I...as some other masters...am my own person and do things for my own pleasure.”

“D’Evaliste, twice, and technically Valisti once, though that was long ago and I was merely the intermediary.” Admitting that didn’t come difficult- the Antivan Crows did things by the book, and if she had wanted, it wouldn’t have been hard for her to find out that little. “But this other answer may surprise you- indeed, most Marcher nobles act the same. Beneath the frivolities they garb themselves in the manner of minor nobility across this world can be as close as chairs hewn together by the same carpenter, pressed into shape by same ancient traditions, same expectations, and same rules that bind them. People who _don’t_ fit the mold are easily differentiated.” 

_Yes, my dear Jewel- we’re still talking about you._

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, the smile very evident in her voice now. “I see. And how do you see yourself as different? Other than few nobles would offer to walk an assassin four miles to her lodging at dusk, that is. If it were later in the year, it would be in darkness.”

“I wouldn’t be walking most those nobles four meters to their lodgings, forget miles. They make for company about as delightful as the plague.” Andros glanced towards the woman, wondering what’d she take from that. “But if you want a straight answer? I’ve felt more alive standing before a map plotting out a campaign than I have ever felt in a ballroom talking to the finery of Thedas’ nobility. A trait I have seen in scarce few others.”

“Glittering ballrooms are fine for a hunt, but they are too gilded for comfort.”

Andros shrugged. “Fortunate are those who end up drawing the lot they desire- for the paths we follow are rarely chosen by ourselves.” That might’ve been one trait they shared- one was a commander forced to morph himself into a house’s heir, the other a trained assassin concealed in a noblewoman’s trappings, and Andros doubted either one of them ever had another path to walk.

“Any weapon can turn in another’s hand. Do I look dissatisfied with life? It’s rare I find myself in those settings, and…” she shrugged lightly, her left thumb caressing the pommel of the sword. “I have few complaints with my life or what Antiva wishes of it. There is a thrill to the chase, is there not? The moment when you discover whether you have properly assessed your target, and your goal is in the palm of your hand?”

“The moment when you watch through a Tevinter spyglass, an army marching into the valley, sunlight gleaming off pike-points and polished helmets, and your stomach twists as you question whether your enemy’s expected the regiment of heavy horse you concealed in the woodland to their flank?”

He was rewarded with a real smile, then. He had no doubt the woman was an expert in acting- but that smile had truth to it. “Perhaps, yes.”

“Then we’re two people who were luckier at the lot than most.”

He could see the roofs of the town up ahead as the sun dipped below the horizon. “Does that mean your curiosity is satisfied?”

Andros grinned. “You are an Antivan Crow- one who lives a life of intrigue. You should know this better than anyone. There is never an answer that does not spawn a new question.”

That earned him another chuckle and a teasing retort. “Your knowledge of the Crows is lacking, Andros.” No more ‘my lords - but then, she’d said that she would rank among their equals, and who would challenge her? “We are the daggers of Antiva. Intrigue? Oh, some, just as others use seduction or poison, or magic, or rely on only wit and steel. But to be a Crow is to be shaped by only three things: Antiva, death and the Code. Anything else is personal.”

“Oh, I claim no expertise on the mannerisms of the Crows. But people? People, I know well. I know enough to assure you that a general who does not know how to ask questions is one who hasn’t done his homework, and a general who hasn’t done his homework is one soon dead.” He smiled ever so slightly. “And I believe we’ve come to the agreement that as far as things go, there’s plenty of similarities between a battle and an assassination- and by extension, a general and an assassin.”

How much had she drunk? She’d matched Straff, glass for glass, yet it had no apparent effect despite his friend having several stones on her. Her steps were as smooth as they’d been before dinner, her poise unchanged - her speech just as lazily precise as when dinner began. Even now, there wasn’t a hair out of place as she stopped to hold his eyes.

“Then what strategy are you attempting? You have no interest in my knowledge of wine and know my blade is Antiva’s - or what contracts I take through the House.”

“A strategy?” Andros leaned in close, close enough to stare straight into her eyes. “Tell me, do you attempt a strategy when you talk about wine, Catalina? Is your interest in it part of some greater stratagem?”

Her eyes glinted back at him with the same lazy amusement as her voice. “Ah, but I am not the one who claimed to be a general, and it was your ‘curiosity’ that led you to escort a woman you know didn’t need one.”

“And here you see my… predicament. You have an interest in wines- a deep curiosity that draws you to them, and brought you to my friend today. You don’t do it for practical reasons or long lasting stratagems, though, once in a while, they must come in handy.” Andros smiled. “As you have an interest in wines, I have one in people- their minds, to be more precise. A personal curiosity, if you will- a harmless pastime, though I couldn’t honestly say it has _no_ practical use. The only difference is, my hobby is quite rare compared to yours, and is considered much more of an oddity.”

“Are you studying me, then?” She started walking again, but even that gave few clues. With any other woman, he might think the glance over her shoulder or swaying hips was an invitation. With her? Only two would be able to say for sure, and one was in the Golden City. “What has your study told you, then?”

“Many things. More questions. And amidst all that, that you deeply remind me of someone.” _To an ominous, worrisome degree._ He matched her pace again, moving closer to where their ways would part.

“I have a question for you, then,” she said, apparently ignoring his comment. “What _was_ your reaction when I introduced myself?”

“A combination of three things.” The question was piercing, and Andros pondered whether to give the lie, or the truth, before eventually deciding on the latter. “A vindication of a presumption that you were more than you seemed, a moment of surprise at having a ranking assassin chatting my friend up about his wines, and of course, the thrill of a puzzle. Perhaps I should thank you for the last- it has been a most interesting observation.” The last line suddenly chilled him.

He’d said it before to someone else. Word for word.

She paused - he must have hesitated - and looked at him. The amusement had vanished for a moment. “Andros Trevelyan. Have you ever used your position to abuse others or threaten Antiva? Have you broken the oaths you’ve taken to your people?”

Andros clenched his jaw. The ground had shifted- the proverbial daggers were coming out. “I presume this is the part our paths separate- on a blade’s edge, if I were to say yes.”

“Not unless you threaten Antiva now,” Catalina shook her head. “If you have done none of those things, then I can swear to you that I see no value in accepting a contract on you. Crows are not common blades that cut just for the joy of it, no matter the joy we can find in our calling. You have nothing to fear from me, no more than you did the moment we met.”

“I fought in two wars, four sieges, and seven field battles. I saw men I commanded tossed into mass graves, and the same men on the other side tossed into pyres. I saw cities sacked and fields plundered. I promised victory and not always managed to deliver, and I kept my thoughts close to myself as I lied to others. I have not threatened Antiva, but if it came to war, I would lead an army against it nonetheless, just as readily as you’d come for me in the night and not with the gentle sort of intent.” 

Andros paused, drawing a long breath of chill air. He needed to remember where he was. It seems she had managed to strike the same sort of passions in him that Erin had with her. And funnily, it had again been the sledgehammer. _Time to take a step back._

“Is there value in accepting a contract on me? That is your decision. If you find none, then I should not complain. If you find some, then we shall truly meet again soon, for you will find no shortage of people who’d rather see me dead. But if what you expected was a single word to tell you whether I’m worth living or not, I’m afraid the world has never been that simple and you’ll just have to trust your own judgment.”

Catalina’s eyes closed with a sigh, and she turned to walk again. “And some things _are_ that simple, Lord Trevelyan, such as the pleasure of talking with someone who knows something of what you are and doesn’t fear.” This time, there was something else in her voice - weariness.

That made Andros want to almost chortle- one could argue about the precise scope of it, but that seemed to be an experience they both shared. Those wide open eyes once someone realized who they were talking to- whether that be the Dark Jewel or the Demon of the Argent Ford.

 _Sometimes, I can still be a fool._ He, the study of people, himself so used to eliciting fear, had missed that entirely. Well, there was a choice to be made. They could walk the last few hundred meters at daggers drawn, continuing the last quarter hour’s verbal sparring. Or they’d have to take a couple steps towards making amends- and somebody would have to take the first one.

“I suppose, in a world this complex…” Andros breathed in, and switched to Antivan, “one ought to look out for simple pleasures.”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled again. That aura of sensuality seemed to be her natural state, as whatever else faded behind it. 

“Indeed,” she returned in Antivan, and tucked her arm in his left. “My inn has a quite good selection of wines. Perhaps your friend’s, even. Another bottle?”

Andros wanted to laugh, for a moment. The entire few hours he’d known the assassin, this was the first time where an action of hers was _definitely_ an invitation- though in that few hours, he’d also learned enough to know that the question of exactly _what_ the invitation entailed still hung in the air. She reminded him far, far too much of a cat in truth - of the hunting kind, not the sort to spend half a day purring before the fireplace.

His instincts told Andros to offer a polite refusal, before setting out on the long hike back to the vineyard. Shame he never listened to them- especially when there were questions yet unanswered.

“You were my guest until very recently.” Well, technically she was Straff’s, but that was details. “It would be churlish to then refuse an invitation extended the other direction.”

The contents of this invitation, he’d soon find out- and then he’d see about what to do, and what would happen. Daggers drawn, or amends made. But he’d keep the sledgehammer ready. Always better to be prepared. Besides, he’d always liked cats - of all types.

**

“Where in the Fade is he?” Erin grumbled, half-heartedly stabbing a fork at one of the slices of ham in the broad breakfast tray before her.

“Oh, he’ll be all right- I can guarantee you that.” Straff sat across her on the table, munching on a slice of apple. “He’s lived through Argent Ford.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t make someone invulnerable- if only.” Erin leaned back, and glanced towards one of the several weapons that decorated the wall. “Actually, I’d better go and-”

The door of the house opened, cutting her off mid-sentence, and her devil of a brother walked inside- looking exactly as he was when he’d left yesterday evening. “Morning, Straff, morning, dear sister.” Andros picked up an unused fork, and plucked another slice of ham from Erin’s plate. 

Erin looked at her younger brother, trying to find any evidence of his whereabouts on him and failing. “Were you-?”

“Was I what?” Andros sat on the empty chair. “I took Straff’s guest to town, spent a couple hours discussing a few curious topics with her. It was too dark to hike back after she’d retired to her lodgings, so I stayed at the inn overnight. I think the innkeeper was a bit amazed to host a baron, but well, he acquitted himself remarkably. I refused one excellent breakfast so that I could join you two in the morning, Straff- your cook’s got a lot to live up to at the moment.”

“You went to town with Catalina Valisti, had a nice polite discussion with her, then you two parted and you stayed at the inn.” Straff summarized up the story. “Are you sure you’re being honest, Andros?”

“What?” Andros shrugged, busy filling his plate. “Would I ever lie to you?”

Erin glanced across the table to Straff. “Yes,” both said in unison.

“Oh, ye two of little faith and even less trust.” Andros sighed with a shake of the head.

Erin had her suspicions, of course, but Andros maintained the same story during the entirety of her short stay there. He only smiled when Straff got a delivery of two bottles of blood-red wine, stamped _Repose._

_‘In thanks for simple pleasures and courtesy to an uninvited guest. Perhaps we can reprise the experience another time.’_

Damn fine wine, too.


End file.
